


I lost sight in your arms tonight, it was nice.

by April_Ace



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: And a whole lot more - Freeform, Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Dubious Ethics, Face-Fucking, Finger Sucking, Frottage, I'm still rooting for him, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mouth Kink, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, technically bad parent Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27904783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Ace/pseuds/April_Ace
Summary: Batman's new Robin has a particular way he wants to be comforted.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Dick Grayson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 142





	I lost sight in your arms tonight, it was nice.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta'd. I'm having a crazy time at work but took a break today to crank this one out. Enjoy. 
> 
> I marked Tim/Dick to be safe but it's not a main pairing.

The first time it happens is the only time the new Robin ever manages to startle Batman.

They'd been pursuing Crane when the man ducked into a busy, pedestrianised block of outdoor cafes, buskers and market stalls. Crane doesn't deploy the fear toxin until he's right in the middle of the crowd, and then all hell breaks loose.

Tim gets a lungful of the toxin before he can get a rebreather on. Bruce is quick with a shot of antitoxin and orders the boy back to the car as people in the crowd begin to panic and scream. He can't spare attention to watch Robin make his way to safety and has to trust that the obediance he'd drilled into the boy would override the lingering effects of the toxin.

It takes nearly an hour to restore order, once Gordon's men show up with bottles of water and the antitoxin in the form of dispersible tablets. They had found that for big crowds like this, the least risky solution was to pour the antidote down people's throats.

By that time Crane is long gone, of course.

Tim is already buckled into his seat when Bruce gets back to the car. The kid is shaking, lips pressed tight together and hands in tight little fists to try to control the reaction.

He shouldn't be out. He's too young for this. In a better world, Tim's parents would have noticed their 13 year old was out every night. 

But maybe in that world there would be no need for a Batman and Robin at all.

The kid is shaking harder under Batman’s observation, and makes an abortive noise like a bitten off whimper. Bruce should probably offer some sort of comfort.

"Robin. You did well tonight," he tries. 

Tim swallows and nods his head jerkily, but he's still tense. Maybe it's the fear toxin? But no, the dose of antitoxin was right for Tim's size, Bruce is sure of that.

They're parked just around the corner from the pedestrianised street. Sitting here, Tim would have heard all the screaming and crying while he waited alone for Batman to come back.

Physical comfort is required, then. Bruce was not very good at physical comfort, but it was harder with Tim than it had been with the other boys, who had taken it for granted that they could touch Bruce as and when they needed. Dick had never waited for hugs to be offered, simply launching himself into Bruce's arms with the firm confidence that all hugs would be returned. Jason had been wary of all touching at first but had warmed up to him in time, casually clambering all over him.

Bruce had seen Tim in public with his parents enough to know they were strictly hands off with their son. Once, at some charity event the Drakes had also attended a couple of years ago, Bruce had seen Tim jump half out of his skin when a waiter behind him popped the cork from a champagne bottle. Tim had clutched at his mother's hand, leaning into her side. She had pulled her hand loose with a little frown and a shake of her wrist, as though flicking off something wet and unpleasant.

Tim didn't make first moves. Bruce was going to have to reach out. Soon. Now.

He felt awkwardness settling in the car the longer he went without doing anything, but initiating was always the hardest part.

 _Just do it._ All he had to do was ruffle Tim's hair and tell him everything would be OK. That would be good enough. _Just do it and we can go home._

Tentatively he reached out and gently carded his fingers through Robin's hair. Robin twitched a little at the touch and Bruce berated himself for not taking the fucking gauntlet off first, imagining the rough fabric of the glove pulling painfully on strands of hair. Hastily he slid his hand to cup Tim's face instead, intending to turn his head so he could make eye contact with the boy when he delivered his everything-would-be-OK line.

Tim turned his head of his own accord and caught Bruce's gloved index and middle fingers in his mouth, latching on. At the same time, Tim's own hands came up to hold Bruce's wrist in place as he started to suck.

Bruce's first startled thought was _Oh, fuck._

The second was _the fear toxin must still be affecting him._

And the third was _the gauntlet isn't clean._

It's the last thought that makes him jerk his hand back. His fingers slide free of Tim's mouth with a wet pop and the boy takes a shaky breath, turning to face forward again.

For a moment Bruce just stares at his glistening fingertips. Then he starts the car and puts both hands firmly on the wheel, even though it's not really necessary when the car is preprogrammed to drive them back to the cave. 

"Are you OK?"

"Yeah," Robin says.

*

With hindsight, it was probably stupid not to address it after that first time. Bruce had half-hoped that it was the result of some unfortunate fear-toxin fueled momentary madness, never to be repeated or spoken about again.

But now that he's watching out for the signs, he wonders how he missed it before. Tim sucks his pencils. He sucks the ends of his shirt sleeves, or pulls up the neckline of his tee and sucks on that. Before he gets a much-needed haircut, he sucks a lock of his hair.

Alfred assures Bruce that Tim will grow out of it.

"The best thing to do is say nothing about it," the butler says decidedly. "Shaming him for it will not make the urge disappear."

At least Tim isn't putting his fist through walls or running away. He doesn't burst with rage like the teens Bruce has most experience with. 

He’s obviously not used to receiving physical comfort of virtually any kind. The closest he had probably come in months was the medical exam Bruce had undertaken when Tim became Robin.

Bruce had decided, with Alfred's encouragement, to hug Tim more. Just because the boy didn't seek physical affection didn't mean he didn't suffer without it. And it's not like Arkham wasn't full of adults who hadn't once been clever, unloved children. A little care now could prevent a lot of heartache later.

Viewing it like a mission made it easier to put aside his awkwardness and draw Tim into his arms more often. He tells Tim that from now on, when his parents are away, he will stay at the manor where Bruce and Alfred can keep an eye on him.

Then he brings back movie night.

Movie night had always been a huge success with breaking down physical and emotional barriers with the other boys. Their excitement would last through one movie, dropping off considerably halfway through the second once the sugar rush was wearing off, and leave them drowsy and limp by the third.

Bruce usually removed any blankets and turned up the AC ahead of the first movie. The boys would appreciate the cool air in the first movie when they had the most trouble sitting still, but as sleepiness and lethargy set in they would break out in goose pimples and, eventually, move closer and closer to Bruce until he could wrap an arm around them and pull them close.

He credited his movie night cuddle strategy for finally convincing Jason he wasn't a pedophile. He still feels a warm rush of affection, tainted now with near-suffocating grief, when he remembers the first time Jason had fallen asleep tucked against his side while _Die Hard_ played in the background.

Movie night with Tim goes the way he expects, at first. 

Tim is thrilled when Bruce suggests an Alfred Hitchcock movie marathon. Bruce cools the room ahead of time as usual but for Tim he brings a blanket, knowing the boy isn't as prone to jumping around as much as Jason and Dick were at his age. He spreads the blanket over his own legs, however, and leaves Tim to shiver uncomfortably for the first twenty minutes of the movie before Bruce "notices."

"I'm sorry Tim, it's freezing in here, isn't it? Alfred overdid it with the AC."

Tim smiles wanly, eyeing the fleece blanket Bruce is currently hogging. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Come over here, we can share," Bruce lifts the edge of the blanket and raises his eyebrows at Tim.

Surprisingly, Tim comes immediately, sliding under Bruce's arm and into the warmth of the blanket. Bruce smiles triumphantly over his head, settling in to watch the movie and trying to ignore the fluttery feeling that comes from having the child's warm trusting weight against him.

During the second movie, _Psycho,_ Tim starts yawning, slouching more and more against his side. He’s watching the movie but also idly exploring the arm Bruce has wrapped around him with his fingers, tracing scars and dragging his finger tips through the wiry arm hairs. It’s distracting, but Bruce doesn’t really mind. 

When the shower scene comes on Tim is more or less holding Bruce's hand in both of his, idly manipulating the fingers. On screen, blood is circling the shower drain.

Tim glances sleepily up at Bruce. "Um you know, they um-" he breaks off to yawn hugely, "They used chocolate milk for the blood."

"Is that so?" 

"Mm, yeah. It looks the same in black and white and it was cheaper than getting real fake blood." Tim yawns again and turns back to the movie. Absently, the boy pulls Bruce's hand up and tucks the same two fingers into his mouth, sucking drowsily at them.

Bruce resists the urge to pull away, deciding instead to observe and see what he can learn about Tim from this behaviour. But he has to ignore the uncomfortable tingly feeling that seems to emanate from his fingertips where Tim’s tongue laps softly around them.

*

A few weeks later, Dick walks into Bruce’s study and drops onto one of the low sofas across from the desk. 

“Can we talk?”

“Of course,” he replies, mildly surprised. These days Dick only visits the manor to yell at Bruce. And despite his better judgement and supposedly greater maturity, Bruce always yells back. 

“You want a drink?”

“Nah,” Dick sighs, glancing at the mini bar in the corner that, of course, Brucie Wayne must have in his study to maintain the image of a work-shy philandering himbo. As he turns his head, Bruce spots a tell-tale mark low on Dick’s neck.

Hoping to keep the conversation light and friendly, he teasingly asks, “So, new girl?” 

“Huh?” Dick crinkles his brow. Bruce taps the side of his own neck pointedly.

“Oh,” Dick claps a hand over the mark, looking uncomfortable. Bruce feels a stab of worry; usually Dick is annoyingly gloating over any and every sexual conquest. 

“Yeah,” Dick rubs at the mark. “That was what I wanted to talk about. This was actually… Tim.”

“Ah.” There’s a long pause while they both look at each other.

“What do you mean, ‘ah’?” Dick finally asks. “Wait a minute. Did you know about this?” 

Bruce opens his mouth to reply but Dick snorts, crossing his arms and scowling. “Of course, you fucking know about this. What are you doing about it?”

Bruce feels a flash of anger at the demanding tone. “What are _you_ doing about it, Dick? You couldn’t tell him no?” he replies with more sarcasm than he knows is really appropriate with the hot-tempered 19 year old. 

“I tried!” Dick snapped in turn. “I told him it’s not OK!”

“And how well did that work out for _you_?” Bruce asks with another pointed look at the bruise Tim had sucked into Dick’s neck.

Dick’s mouth drops open furiously, and Bruce knows he has to turn this around before they devolve into a shouting match.

“Don’t,” he growls before Dick can speak. “Don’t yell. Tim’s in the house.”

Dick deflates. “His folks are away again?” 

Bruce nods. “If it’s any consolation, he does it to me, too.”

Dick looks incredulously at him. “Why the fuck would that be any consolation, Bruce? Jesus.”

“I just mean, I’ve tried to address it with him. I’m guessing it worked the same for you as it did for me.”

Dick clenched his jaw but said nothing, glancing away.

Bruce really had tried. After he failed to pull his hand away during movie night, Tim had apparently decided he was welcome to suck Bruce’s fingers whenever the man attempted physical comfort. Not just his fingers though, Tim went for his wrist or the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb, sucking uncomfortably loud. 

Bruce had finally sat Tim down and explained that he couldn’t do this. He was welcome to self-soothe with his own fingers, but the only contact he should seek or expect from Bruce was hugging. 

He knew he’d expressed himself badly, as he always did with anything related to emotional honesty, but he exerted himself to be very clear about what was and wasn’t appropriate.

Tim had responded by rejecting all further attempts by Bruce at physical contact. He ducked away from hair ruffling on patrol, wore sweaters and bed socks to movie night, staying firmly on his side of the couch. 

He tells all this to Dick, who looks at him wide-eyed.

“He did that to me, too,” Dick admits. “But last time, I just… had to hug him. And I didn’t want him to push me away, so that’s why I let him…” he touches the mark again. 

Tim’s parents had come home a few days after Bruce had put a stop to the mouthing behaviour, and Tim had gone back to them. Although he doesn’t tell Dick this, Bruce has bugs set up to monitor the Drakes in their home, whenever they happened to be there. 

As far as he could tell, Jack and Janet had spent every night snapping waspishly at each other, eventually leading up to screaming fights that could put himself and Dick to shame. 

He barely heard Tim’s voice over the line, although he knew from the context of the Drake’s arguments that the boy was often in the room. They spoke of him, but rarely to him. 

Tim’s uniformly cheerful attitude didn’t change when he joined Batman on patrol in the evenings, but Bruce’s had. He felt nothing but sympathy for the boy, and both wished and feared that his parents would eventually do something bad enough to put Tim into Bruce’s care permanently.

So the next time Tim had sat in the batmobile quietly shaking apart in the passenger seat, Bruce had reached over and offered his hand - gloves off this time - and let Tim suck his finger for the whole ride home. By the time they were back in the cave, the boy was nearly asleep. 

“Alfred yelled at me,” Bruce tells Dick. “Well, not _yelled,_ because Alfred doesn’t yell, but he previously advised me not to shame Tim about this and that he’d grow out of it, so he was angry that I hurt Tim’s feelings.”

“Do you really think he’ll grow out of it?”

“I do,” Bruce replied, then paused, thinking how much to tell Dick. “I investigated a little.”

“Of course you did,” Dick sighed. 

“I found a letter in Tim’s school records from his first grade teacher. Apparently Tim turned up to school with a pacifier. The other kids bullied him for it. The note was to his parents, advising them that a six year old shouldn’t still be using a pacifier.”

He sits forward, lacing his fingers on the desk top. 

“I looked into the Drake’s itinerary for that year. They were gone for most of the months leading up to Tim starting school, and were only home for a few weeks in the Fall before leaving again. I think they didn’t even notice he was still using a soother, until they got that letter. They probably just took all the pacifiers away, and most likely punished Tim if he mentioned it.” 

Dick growls indignantly at that. Although they’d never say so to Tim, neither of them liked his parents. 

“How much of this is just speculating?”

“I haven’t asked Tim, if that’s what you mean,” Bruce replied. “But I think Alfred is right; Tim feels safe with us, and he doesn’t with his parents. He’s just regressing a little to experience a form of comfort that previously helped him, with people who won’t reject him for it. We can be adults about it, can’t we? He _will_ grow out of it.”

“So, I should just let him _suck me?”_ Dick asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. 

Bruce ignores the tone. “I think we need to establish ground rules. Uh,” he glances at Dick’s neck again. “No marks.”

“Obviously. Fingers only?”

“Or clothes. He seems to like his own shirts. So,” Bruce shrugs. 

“OK... speaking of clothes, I think no sucking anything except when fully clothed,” Dick says decidedly, then shakes his head. “God this is fucking weird, Bruce. We’re deciding what’s OK for a 13-year-old kid to suck on us.”

“So not in public,” Bruce says sardonically. Dick rolls his eyes, so Bruce adds, “And we can tell him no.” 

Dick raises his eyebrows at that. “I thought we weren’t trying to make him feel bad?”

“But that doesn’t mean _you_ have to feel bad. You can tell him you’re not OK with it. It won’t kill him.”

“Yeah, OK,” Dick runs a hand through his hair, still looking troubled. “I get it, thanks.”

“He’ll grow out of it, Dick.”

“Yeah, he’ll grow out of it. ‘Course he will.”

*

Tim did not grow out of it.

Granted, he did it _less_ , but two years on he hadn’t stopped entirely. 

They all got used to it. Tim had been shy about it at first, the way Jason had once been shy about physical affection, but once he knew that he wouldn’t be thrown out or yelled at, Tim became much more confident about his preferred method of seeking comfort. 

After his mom died and his father was in a coma, Bruce had visited Tim in his room. The boy had returned his hug with a desperate clinginess, as though scared Bruce would suddenly die, too. Bruce had felt his shirt getting wetter and wetter from the boy’s tears, and then continue to get wet after Tim had stopped crying. When he pulled back a little, he found the boy was sucking one of his shirt buttons, tears still clinging to his eyelashes. 

On movie nights, Tim habitually sucked Bruce’s fingers while watching the film. Bruce grimaced when his fingers came back distinctly pruny, but he never once told Tim off for it. 

Bruce would be catching up on WE paperwork in the hours before patrol, when Tim would slouch into the room and curl up in his lap. If Bruce was wearing a tie, he would suck the edge of the fabric, his head resting on Bruce’s shoulder, legs dangling over Bruce’s thigh. 

If he wasn’t wearing a tie, Tim would suck at the collar of his shirt. Although he never walked in on Dick and Tim, nor vice versa, it wasn’t long before Dick started to show up with wet patches on his shirts whenever he stayed at the manor. The only difference, Bruce noted, was that Tim seemed to favour the fabric covering Dick’s under arms, which he never sucked on Bruce. 

After the first time, Dick and Bruce didn’t discuss it again. Even Alfred never commented on it. 

They got so used to it that Bruce became complacent. A mistake, as it turned out.

One day, Clark and Diana came to the manor to speak to Bruce. They were there on Justice League business, but it was a case that happened to overlap their civilian lives. Since the three already knew each others’ identities, they were keeping the case separate from the rest of the league. Which meant meeting somewhere private. And that meant the manor.

It was late on the Sunday morning an hour or so into the meeting when Tim suddenly made an appearance. 

He stood blinking drowsily in the doorway to the small sitting room. His hair stuck up crazily and he had his comforter draped around him. The teen would normally have dressed more respectably for a Justice League visit, but he had been working late on his own cases the past few nights and had barely gotten any sleep. Bruce sighed.

Clark and Diana exchanged amused smirks; they enjoyed seeing “Domestic Batman” but they _lived for_ “Dad Batman”. 

Tim padded over to Bruce, wearing socks too low down so the toe seam dangled and flapped a few inches from the ends of his feet, in that manner that only teenage boys seem able to tolerate. 

“Bruce,” he whined. “Alfred won’t lemme have coffee.” He reaches Bruce’s chair and flopped forward onto his lap. Bruce lifted his tablet as Tim fell on him, without looking away from it, then rested his elbows on the boy’s back, still scrolling through the data.

Clark is grinning openly now; as Tim had approached he’d let the comforter fall off. He’s wearing a pair of black sleep shorts and a superman tee, which fact Bruce refuses to acknowledge. 

“What do you imagine I can do about that, Tim?” 

“Give me _your_ coffee,” Tim ventures, then sits up to peer blearily into the mug resting on the side table next to Bruce’s seat. 

“What the fuck, B?” he whines, flopping limp again. “This shit is empty.”

“I drank my coffee myself, Tim,” Bruce informs him calmly. “And don’t swear.” 

Tim make a loud, annoyed URRGH noise of exasperation at the news that Bruce had been selfish enough to drink his own coffee. Then he twists and squirms around in Bruce’s lap, doing his best to dig his bony teenage limbs in as much as he can until he’s looking up at Bruce.

“Jerk,” he muttered, then sat up and leaned against Bruce’s chest, nuzzling into the shirt. Clark is covering his mouth to try to hide his smile and Diana has both hands over her heart, looking almost offensively joyful.

Both expressions vanish at super speed the moment Tim bites hold of Bruce’s tie and starts to suckle at it, half asleep.

At first, Bruce doesn’t even notice. Not his friends’ surprise, nor the cause of it. He briefly strokes Tim’s hair while continuing to read the tablet. 

He glances up to see Diana and Clark evidently having a furious, but entirely silent argument. Clark clearly wants to say something, and Diana is firmly signing at him to _say nothing._

For a moment Bruce is concerned and mystified, wondering what’s got them upset. Then Tim lets go of his tie long enough to gesture at a couple of data points on the tablet screen. 

“Pattern,” Tim mumbles. Distracted, Bruce reviews the information and sees that yes, there is a pattern in these numbers. 

This time when Tim latches back onto his tie and resumes loudly sucking at it, Bruce realises what’s got his colleagues looking so sour. 

He glares quellingly at them, and then speaks in a determined voice. “I think we have no choice but to pursue this in our civilian identities. No suits. Diana?”

“Oh - yes,” Diana says, catching onto Bruce’s silent order to not talk about what Tim was doing right now. “It should be me, yes. I have the least to lose.” She’s staring at Tim helplessly as she says this. 

Clark is silent, his lips pressed together firmly. 

After a few tense minutes where Diana and Bruce awkwardly try to carry on a stilted discussion loudly enough to drown out Tim’s sleepy sucking noises, and Clark resolutely says nothing but glowers furiously out the window, Bruce gives in and texts Alfred to come in.

“Alfred,” he says in some relief when the butler enters. “Could you see that Tim has some breakfast - er, lunch? He can have half a cup of coffee.”

Alfred looks disapproving - he doesn’t believe a 15 year old should have caffeine - but Tim’s eyes fly open at the suggestion of food and coffee. He drops Bruce’s tie and scrambles up off his lap to follow Alfred out, seeming to still not really notice Clark and Diana. 

Alfred presciently closes the door behind him as they go, and for a moment the trio are silent.

“What the hell was that?” Clark finally asks. 

“It’s… complicated,” Bruce says, “And none of your business,” he adds with a glare when Clark scoffs. 

“Inappropriate, Bruce! And _weird!_ What does Dick say about it?”

“I ask a lot of the boys,” Bruce replies, deciding not to bring Dick into it. “They’re entitled to seek comfort from me.”

Diana looks concerned, but tries on a smile. 

“Your son is adorable, and he obviously feels...very safe with you,” she says, diplomatically. 

Clark looks disgusted. “Di, you _can’t_ be suggesting that was OK! Maybe a toddler can sit your lap and chew on your clothes - your _own_ toddler, I mean.”

He shakes his head furiously. “That kid is what, 14, 15? He’s too _old_ for that kind of behaviour. Honestly, Bruce, how can you not know-?”

“What do _you_ know about it?” Bruce snapped. “Why don’t you try parenting, and then tell me how black and white everything is.”

“This discussion is not helpful,” Diana said firmly. “I trust Bruce, and Robin seems a good and respectable young person to me. Clark, we can’t come into Bruce’s home and judge him when there is no evidence of harm or wrongdoing.”

Clark starts to speak but Diana continues in the same firm tone, looking at Clark but really talking to Bruce. “Robin also has _good friends_ in the Titans. I am certain if he would tell them if he was experiencing any hardship, and they in turn would tell us, as their mentors. And then we may step in.”

“Fine,” Clark grumbles reluctantly, after a long moment of silence. “Let’s.. Let’s continue with the strategy.”

The rest of the meeting is more productive, as each of them is thoroughly determined not to revert back to the topic of Bruce’s sidekick. But after an afternoon of hard work, Bruce is not sorry to see them leave. 

*

As Tim starts his 16th year, he begins to grow out of it. At first, Bruce is relieved.

All year he kept hoping that Tim would literally _grow_ out of the habit, and become too big to sit comfortably in his lap. But Tim had topped out at just over five and a half feet tall and didn’t seem in a hurry to get any bigger. Bruce had resigned himself to wet patches on his shirts and ruined $300 ties for the foreseeable future. 

Then Tim’s friends had begun to die. And Jack Drake died. Instead of turning to Bruce an Dick for comfort, Tim had inexplicably turned _in._ He threw himself into case after case, working too long and too hard. Falling asleep in class, ditching school entirely, running unneccesary risks and shedding pounds at a frightening rate. 

When Bruce tried to bench him, Tim had said, “Yes, Bruce,” then vanished for weeks. When he finally turned up again, he looked like a famine victim and had evidently been awake for days.

When threats and wheedling no longer worked, Bruce had finally had to peel Tim out of his Robin suit by force and throw him into the shower. 

Tim grumbled mutinously but had not attempted to argue with Bruce standing impassive guard at the bathroom door. After, the boy put on the soft sweatpants and jersey top Bruce had laid out for him. But before he could make any kind of getaway, Bruce had dragged Tim to his bed, sat down against the headboard with him in his lap, and practically forced his fingers into the boy’s mouth.

For the first time, Tim bit him. Bruce didn’t even flinch, keeping his first two fingers in the boy’s mouth and his other hand firmly holding Tim’s head against his shoulder. Tim growled and huffed around the digits, and then when he couldn’t get loose he lay stiff, stubbornly unmoving.

Well, at least he was still. And clean. And in bed. Bruce would count it as a win, even if he had to hold the boy there all night. But after a few minutes Tim had sighed resignedly and Bruce felt him finally sucking his fingers, his tongue rubbing against the pads in a familiar way.

“Good boy,” Bruce said in the relief of his feelings, then froze. 

Shit. That had sounded sexual. 

He felt Tim’s tongue pause, and then the boy took hold of Bruce’s wrist and slid his mouth down the length of his fingers. Until his lips were around the base of his knuckles. 

Bruce had enough control of his reactions not to blush, or let his breath hitch, or feel his heartbeat speed up. But he couldn’t help the twitch of his clothed cock against Tim’s hip. 

He hoped Tim hadn’t felt it.

Tim pulled back up before Bruce could say anything, and then settled in again, just softly sucking the finger tips. He eventually went boneless against Bruce, sucking less and less frequently as he fell asleep.

After a while, Bruce carefully eased the sleeping boy onto the bed and covered him with the duvet. Then he went to his own room and took a cold shower.

*

He’s not sure when exactly they crossed the line with Tim, but he knows for certain that they definitely _have_ crossed that line the day he finds Alfred preparing a bottle in the kitchen. 

The bottle has a long rubber nipple like the kind designed for calves, and is filled with a liquid Bruce recognises as the calorie-dense protein shake Alfred makes whenever one of them is trying to bulk up.

He knows instantly that it’s been prepared for Tim.

“It’s the only thing I can think of to ensure Timothy gets enough calories,” Alfred tells him with a frown. “He barely makes a dent in any meal I prepare, assuming he shows up to eat at all.” 

“He’s having a rough time,” Bruce says blankly, still staring at the bottle. It’s the only thing he can think to say.

“And you can’t keep him out of the suit,” Alfred says despairingly. “He can’t continue like this, Bruce. He’s too thin. He’ll get _hurt._ ”

Alfred’s distress hurts the way it always does, and impulsively Bruce takes the bottle from him. 

“I’ll do this,” he reassures him. “Don’t worry about it, Alfred. I’ll take care of it.”

He finds Tim in his room, leaning too close to his laptop screen as he works on something for the Titans.

“Tim, will you come down to dinner?”

“Yeah, in a minute,” the boy replies vaguely, not looking up. Bruce waits precisely one minute, then drags Tim’s chair away from the desk.

“Hey-!” Tim starts, then shuts up as he spots the bottle in Bruce’s other hand. His eyes dart to Bruce’s face and then back again. “What’s that?”

“Dinner,” Bruce says flatly. 

Part of him hopes that Tim will be so embarrassed by this measure that he instantly forgoes every bad habit and commits to eating every meal. Off a plate. With a knife and fork. 

Instead, Tim’s cheeks flush but not, it seems, from humiliation. The blacks of his eyes look huge and liquid. “You’re going to… bottle-feed me?”

“You can do it yourself,” Bruce offers, but Tim shakes his head. 

“No you,” he says fervently. “I want you to do it.”

“Alright,” Bruce replies, trying to pretend this is still as innocent as giving a lonely child some much-needed comfort. He sits on the sofa and Tim immediately crawls into his lap. 

He nudges the teat against Tim’s lips and the boy latches onto it. They have to play around with the angle to find something comfortable for both of them, but eventually Tim settles into the crook of his arm, _nursing eagerly_ at the bottle. 

Why did Alfred pick such a long teat? Perhaps he thought the boy would be most comfortable with something resembling a finger. The nipple is about four inches long and Tim bobs his head up and down the length of it in an inappropriately lascivious way. 

Now in addition to sucking noises, Bruce has to listen to Tim _gulping_ and swallowing and catching his breath. The boy’s knees are tucked up on the sofa next to Bruce, so he can’t see - and is resolutely _not looking_ but he has the distinct suspicion that Tim’s penis has gotten hard in his jeans.

Bruce, too. He can feel his erection digging into Tim’s bony ass where it rests in his lap.

Neither of them acknowledge it. Bruce was half-fearing that at any moment Tim would start accidentally-on-purpose wriggling his butt against Bruce’s length. But the boy seems wholly focused on the bottle. He’s looking up at Bruce, a dreamy, faraway look on his face that Bruce doesn’t want to think of as _fucked out._

Bruce looks away. 

He’s so fucked, as Jason would say.

*

Tim perhaps regrets the incident with the bottle as much as Bruce does, because from that day on he begins to show up for nearly every meal, and even eats the snacks Alfred leaves out for him. 

Alfred had not asked questions after Bruce had returned to the kitchen with the empty bottle. But in the days and weeks since, he’d been more and more satisfied that his strategy had worked. 

Meanwhile, Tim started to cheer up a bit. He was still understandably upset about his recent losses, but he took a step back from his workload. He agreed not to go out in the suit again until he’d gained back the weight he’d lost.

He resumed his sessions with Bruce’s ties and collars and fingers with the regularity of past years. Only now, every time Tim settled into his lap, Bruce inevitably felt himself getting hard. 

It got worse as the boy put on weight and started taking better care of his hygiene. He still seemed to take no notice at all of Bruce’s erections, but the pressure of his body against Bruce, and the sound of his mouth working, was suddenly impossible to disregard. Making it difficult to carry on with whatever task he’d been doing. 

Today, Tim found him once again in his study. Bruce thought about telling him no this time, but Tim’s eyes were red-rimmed as though he’d been crying. The collar of his own t-shirt was damp in two places. 

Bruce knew that Tim often resisted coming to him for comfort, even though Bruce never rejected him. He would try to make do with his own resources, and only come to Bruce, or Dick if he was available, when he felt he had run out of options. 

He sat back silently and let the boy climb in his lap. 

For a time, Tim didn’t latch onto anything, just resting his head against Bruce’s chest and listening to his heartbeat. Bruce stroked his hair back from his forehead. “Alright, chum?”

Tim nodded, then turned to nuzzle his face into Bruce’s chest as thought he’d been waiting for permission to start. 

Bruce wasn’t wearing a tie today, just a worn out old polo shirt, softened by repeated washing. There was a breast pocket on one side, with a little cream-coloured button in the centre of it. Tim latched onto this button and sucked it into his mouth.

Bruce hissed sharply, realising belatedly that the button was right over his nipple. The nub of it had gotten pinched between Tim’s teeth and the hard edge of the button, making an electric jolt shoot through him unexpectedly. 

His traitorous dick immediately began to fill and rise. “Tim,” he started.

Tim moaned breathily and kept sucking the button, and through the shirt, Bruce’s nipple. He worried at it with his teeth, nuzzling hard. 

Bruce grunted and put one hand up to Tim’s head. He fully intended to pull him away, tell him this was too much and send him out the room. But when his fingers dug into Tim’s scalp the boy moaned louder, and Bruce found himself pressing him closer instead of pushing away.

Tim responded by sucking more, harder. Bruce felt his other nipple hardening up as the one under Tim’s tongue began to throb from the stimulation. 

It seemed to Bruce that his sanity was slipping away from him as he held Tim’s face firmly to his chest and wrapped his other arm around Tim’s waist. He started to rock his hips up, rubbing his clothed cock against Tim’s hip in hard thrusts. Tim whimpered against him.

“Shh, shh, it’s OK, just go to sleep, baby,” he rambled senselessly. “Oh, Tim.”

Tim started to squirm more under Bruce’s hands, so he tightened his grip. In the now-crazy part of his brain he felt that as long as Tim couldn’t see what was happening, it wouldn’t _really_ have happened. 

“Just a little more,” he panted, grinding roughly against his boy. Tim whined again, still sucking at him. His body jerked and shook in Bruce’s arms his fingers spasming where they clutched at Bruce’s chest. 

_Oh God, is he coming?_ He felt Tim’s mouth open and the boy panting against his chest, little whimpers slipping out on every breath. 

“That’s it, Tim,” Bruce praised breathlessly when he felt Tim beginning to suck again. “Good boy.” He hunched over, clutching Tim against him so he could fuck hard against his hip, until his orgasm hit, shooting inside his pants. 

After a time he realised he had a death-grip on Tim’s hip and head. He sat them up slowly and uncurled his hands with some difficulty. They blinked at each other, their heavy breathing slowly returning to normal.

“I should go clean up,” Tim murmured, glancing down. He had indeed orgasmed in his own sweatpants. 

“Alright,” Bruce replied, as Tim got up. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, B. Um, are _you_ OK?” 

Bruce thinks of all the things he could say: _of course not; how can you even ask that; I need to be shot in the head; I should be castrated and strung up; I’m absolutely not OK with this and nor should you be._

“I’m fine, Tim.”

“OK. Um… thanks, B.”

“Of course, Tim.”

*

It happens again. And again. They stay fully clothed, and some feeble part of Bruce’s mind tries to argue that it’s not _really_ sexual abuse if they’re both entirely clothed the whole time. That same internal voice refuses to let him consider that his activities with Tim for the past three years could plausibly be considered grooming. Tim seems wholly unconcerned by the new sexual aspect of the arrangement. 

Bruce wonders if he’s doing the same thing with Dick, and feels a weird and unwelcome stab of jealousy at the thought, which nearly drives him to drink. 

Instead, the next time he and Dick are alone, he casually comments on Tim’s habit. Dick gives him a surprised look.

“He still does that with you?”

“He doesn’t with you?”

“No,” Dick said slowly, looking at Bruce curiously. “The last time he did was maybe… eight months ago? He, uh, got an erection during and I told him we had to stop. He was fine with it.”

Dick paused, giving Bruce a weird look. “That hasn’t happened when he’s with you?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Bruce said, then changed the subject. He was careful to keep his expression neutral, aware of Dick side-eyeing him. 

He berated himself for the relief he felt that Tim hadn’t been doing this with Dick or anyone else. 

*

For a while, they’re doing it almost daily. It gets to the point where Bruce _expects_ to get off with Tim in his lap. 

And then one week, for no apparent reason, Tim stops coming to his study. Bruce waits expectantly for him every day, and then gets angry with himself for feeling neglected when Tim fails to materialise.

He swears to himself that he’s not going to _pursue Tim._ He can see plainly that the boy isn’t sliding back into another depressive episode. He’s still eating most meals, chattering happily to Dick or Alfred or Stephanie - whoever happens to be around. 

No, he won’t pursue Tim. He had always expected Tim to grow out of the habit, and now that it was happening, Bruce should be glad. But instead, he feels first annoyed and then irritable. Half a dozen nights he almost gets out of his bed to go to Tim’s room. 

It’s only the reminder of how ridiculous and inappropriate he’s being that keeps him in check. He focuses on moving past it, putting this weird blip firmly in the rearview mirror.

He’s nearly convinced himself that he’s really happy about the end of his sexual relationship with his adoptive son, but all that gets washed clean out of his mind by the wave of relief he feels when Tim finally slips back into his office one afternoon. 

“Can I?” Tim asks, gesturing to Bruce’s lap. Keeping his face composed, Bruce wheels the chair back to let Tim sit down.

Instead, Tim gets down on his knees in front of him. Bruce’s breath quickens as Tim leans over his lap. Is Tim really about to-?

The boy’s mouth finds his - his _belt buckle._

Bruce stares in disbelief as Tim sucks at the silver-plated buckle and leather belt. He wants to say something; can’t think of anything that won’t sound completely ridiculous. Tim pulls off suddenly, looking up at him. 

“Oh, sorry,” the boy says, and scoots back until he’s slightly under the desk. He grips Bruce’s legs and tugs until Bruce pulls the chair back in, then he leans over his lap again and resumes sucking the belt buckle.

Leaving Bruce to stare at the papers on his desk and his computer screen, feeling like a huge fucking idiot.

Tim’s forearms rest on Bruce’s thighs, his hands lightly on Bruce’s waist as he works the buckle in his mouth. 

Bruce huffs an angry breath silently through his nose. Surely, the boy is doing this on purpose. Normally, Tim in his lap would provide friction against his cock, something for him to thrust against. But nothing is touching his cock now, for all Tim is so close.

Bruce is wearing the same suit trousers he’d worn to work. He knows that by now his dick is making a thick imprint against his right thigh, but Tim is holding himself up. Not touching him at all. 

He has no right to be angry, and yet he’s mad as hell. Tim is _definitely_ trying to provoke him. 

But so what? Bruce is an adult. It shouldn’t be a hardship to _not molest his fucking kid._

He glares down at Tim’s head. Said kid was asking for some fucking punishment. 

At that moment Tim makes a tiny whimpering sound, and Bruce realises that the boy’s right hand has vanished from it’s place on Bruce’s thigh. He notices the tell-tale movement of the boy’s shoulder. 

_He’s jerking off._

This is another new thing. Tim had never once touched himself during any of their sessions, always coming untouched in his pants. 

“Tim,” he growls. The boy’s blue eyes flash up to his face and he hums a question. 

Bruce has no idea what he wants to say, so he grabs Tim’s head with one hand, sliding his fingers through the coarse strands. He’s not sure when Tim’s hair had lost its baby-fineness. 

His fingers clench in the black locks. He wants to move Tim’s suckling mouth to the wet patch currently forming on Bruce’s thigh. Tim holds his gaze a moment longer, then drops his eyes demurely, nuzzling at Bruce’s belly above the waistband. He pants harshly and Bruce realises he’s still masturbating. “Bruce,” the boy breathes into his shirt.

That does it. 

Bruce tightens his grip on Tim’s hair and moves him where he wants. He’s careful to drag Tim’s face along the aching length of his trapped cock to the head. The boy’s tongue darts out to taste the wet patch on Bruce’s thousand-dollar silk trousers. Bruce groans and tugs Tim’s hair impatiently.

Tim closes his eyes and mouths at the tip of Bruce’s dick. Bruce’s hand goes from clenching his hair to stroking, and he makes vaguely praising noises as Tim finally, finally sucks his cock. 

The wetter his pants get, the more the smell of sex starts to fill the air between them. Bruce slides his hand down to Tim’s throat, imagining what it would be like to fuck the boy’s face. He remembers how Tim’s suckling mouth felt around his fingers and imagines the feeling against the bare skin of his cock.

“Is your cock out? Show me,” he orders the boy. He pulls the chair back out of Tim’s reach. Tim shuffles out from under the desk on his knees, one hand gripping the base of his erection. 

Tim leans back, pulling his shirt up with his free hand to give Bruce a good look. His dick is slim and straight, the flushed purple head disappearing and reappearing as he fucks his fist. 

Bruce opens his own trousers - now sopping wet from precome and spit - and pulls his own straining erection out. 

Tim whines at the sight of it and fucks his fist faster. He tilts his head back with a cry and comes all over his fist and belly. 

“Come here,” Bruce growls when the aftershocks of Tim’s orgasm have passed. “Get over here and suck me.”

Tim shuffled forward with his pants around his thighs, and leans in eagerly. Bruce stops him with a hand in his hair, holding him in place and slapping his cock against the boy’s face.

“Little tease,” Bruce grumbles. Tim looks up at him, looking fucked out, and slides his tongue out for Bruce to rest his cock on. 

Instead, Bruce grips his head with both hands and pulls him down. He fucks Tim’s mouth deeply and confidently, thinking of the easy way Tim had taken his fingers, the bottle. Tim’s been training for this, whether he knew it or not. 

Tim’s hands brace on his thighs but he doesn’t push away, sucking eagerly while Bruce drags his face up and down the length of his dick. He wants to ram into Tim’s throat and fuck him raw, pounding in over and over until he comes deep inside his boy. 

But Tim isn’t ready for that, despite how much he obviously wants it. 

“Use your hand too,” Bruce pants, knowing he needs the extra stimulation to get off. Tim’s hand and mouth move together, his tongue swirling around the head and dipping into the slit. “Faster - that’s it.”

Bruce groans loudly, his hips stuttering forward. He pushes Tim down until his cock is at the back of the boy’s throat, his mouth kissing his own fist, and then Bruce is coming, and Tim is sucking him through it, choking and swallowing by turns. 

Bruce leans back in the chair, panting. He looks in concern down at Tim, gazing back up at him dazedly. His mouth and chin are slick with spit and come, and there’s a strand of fluid connecting the corner of his mouth to Bruce’s softening dick.

“Come up here,” Bruce coaxes, tugging at him. Tim shakes his head, scooting back a little. Bruce feels a sinking in his stomach; this really was too far. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Can I stay down here awhile?” Tim asks, indicating the desk. “Can I just, um, hold it in my mouth for… a little while?”

Bruce looks at the boy on his knees, with his pants still around his thighs and his half-hard cock out. 

“Of course, Tim,” he replies. He pulls himself back to the desk, hiding Tim from view. He feels Tim’s mouth wrap around his cock again, and it’s _almost_ too sensitive for it, but Tim only sucks softly now. The boy breathes a contented little sigh and settles his head against Bruce’s thigh.

Bruce turns his attention back to the work on his desk, thinking that he might just be able to concentrate on it.

For a little while, at least. 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to anyone who subscribed because of my sex-free Alfred-raises-Tim AU and now is getting a notification about a kink-ass fic that includes a scene where Alfred prepares a bottle of protein shake so Bruce can bottlefeed Tim.


End file.
